


Turacos

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bed Warming, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam overhears Merry telling Frodo of his latest purchase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turacos

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: All the bedwarming! \o/ Which isn’t really sex work so I didn’t tag it, but heads up that it could be construed that way. You’re warned.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s weeding by the time Frodo and Merry wander out of the house, chattering about the sights in Buckland that go way over Sam’s head. He’s elbow-deep in Hobbiton soil, which is easier to understand. They take a seat on the bench outside Bag End’s front door. Sam can smell their mint tea in the air and hear their cheerful voices carry up the hill. Every time Sam hears Frodo laugh, he gets a little shiver, like he’s closed his eyes a second too long and fallen into dreams. 

Frodo asks the most questions—Buckland’s more exciting and prone to change than Hobbiton, or at least, it seems that way from their side. Merry talks about Mr. Maggot, which makes Sam’s shoulders tense; he knows Frodo’s afraid of the cruel old farmer. But Merry swears he’s lightened up some and his mushrooms are to die for. Sam could go for some mushrooms. But now isn’t a good time to take a break—he might miss the sound of Frodo’s soft voice outshining the sun. 

He’s just dug out another bulb when Merry says, “By the way, I bought a bed-warmer.” For the first time that morning, Sam looks up in surprise and glances down over the hill. The early light’s brightened Merry’s hair and given Frodo’s a halo. Sam can’t see their faces, but Frodo sounds just as confused as Sam is. 

“What is that? I’ve never heard of one.”

“It’s a hobbit!” Merry laughs, which confuses Sam all the more—he’d expected some kind of hot water bottle. It sounds a very odd job to have, warming beds. He can only imagine what sort of tools they’d have, but all he can think of is candles, and that seems too dangerous to have near a mattress. “I found this cute young thing in the Green Dragon, offering it for a fair price. I couldn’t resist treating myself. Only trouble is, now I can’t imagine letting him go!”

Frodo seems to ponder this, Sam doing the same, then asks, “So who is this hobbit and what does he do, exactly?”

“Keep the bed warm,” Merry snorts, like it’s obvious. “Peregrin Took’s his name, but I say Pippin, and he comes when I call it. ’Just lies in my bed at night, like a hobbit-shaped pillow, except much nicer to cuddle with when I’m in the mood.” _Now_ Sam understands. He has a vague idea of what Merry’s referring to from lewd stories of afar, though he never imagined such things would go on in the Shire. It’s the sort of thing that only Mr. Frodo and his strange friends would discuss— _proper_ hobbits would never go on like this in broad daylight. It makes Sam’s cheeks heat and his face turn stubbornly back to the grass. His old gaffer would have his head for listening to such tales. But Merry goes on like it’s nothing, “I don’t think it’s usually required, but I got lucky that Pippin likes to be touched. So I get to do that too, when he lets me. And so far there’s only been one night where he hasn’t. Can you imagine that? I should bring him up sometime, though I have no claim to his days. You’d like him. And I’d like to show off what I’m getting.” Frodo laughs, while Sam shakes his head to himself. He can only imagine what such a hobbit would look like. Maybe not that different than any other. But Sam would see him and _know_ that he lay with Merry every night, like some sort of toy or a pet. But dirtier. 

More fun. Sam shakes his head again like it’ll shake off the inappropriate thoughts. Frodo asks, “What is this Pippin like otherwise? When you’re not paying him to keep your cot ready?”

“Uppity,” Merry answers. “With a mouth that runs too often, to be honest. But he’s fun nonetheless and delightful beneath the covers, so who am I to complain? I daresay I’ll keep him around as long as I can afford it. But what about you, Frodo? I know you’ve been lonely since Bilbo left—you could afford a bed-warmer. I don’t know if you could find one as cute and wild as my Pip, but I could help you look.”

Sam expects Frodo to say no right away. He doesn’t know why. Frodo’s never been particularly _normal_ , as far as local standards go, but the idea of Frodo employing another hobbit to take care of his nighttime needs just doesn’t sit well with Sam at all. 

It makes his stomach tighten. The more he thinks about it, the worse it is. And it shouldn’t be necessary. Frodo’s pretty and sweet. He could get someone easily without having money involved. Perhaps not a professional and not to his specifications, but surely close. He’s smart, funny, kind, and _beautiful_. Who wouldn’t want to stay in Mr. Frodo’s bed every night?

Sam rips a bulb out too hard, and the dirt goes showering around his knees. Down the hill, Frodo quietly answers, “I don’t know if I could do that.”

“You should try,” Merry insists. It makes Sam want to tell him to shut up, though Sam would never interrupt his master’s conversations. He can only thrust his trowel fiercely into the ripe earth and try not to fantasize about what it would be like to _be Mr. Frodo’s bed-warmer_ , lie in his bed every night and wrap tight around him. Sam could never do such a thing, of course. He’s a gardener, anyway; he’s got a perfectly good job. And he wouldn’t want to give it up just to climb between Frodo’s sheets. Even if it might mean that Frodo would occasionally roll against him in the night, cling to his back or snuggle up against his chest, and that perfect smile would be the last thing he saw before slipping off to dream. And, of course, like this ‘Pippin’, Sam wouldn’t mind being touched, not by Mr. Frodo, and though he could never adequately fulfill his gorgeous master’s needs, he could maybe _try_...

“We should ask at the pub when we go tonight,” Merry suggests, popping Sam’s bubble of forbidden fantasies that he’d never admit to a soul. “A sly word to the bartender might give you some leads.” Sam wants to shout again.

They can’t just let some stranger into Frodo’s bed. Someone who they don’t know, can’t trust, who wouldn’t understand how precious Frodo is, might not treat him right. Of course, Sam could come back to trim the hedges and covertly linger by the window, just to make sure Frodo’s alright; he could leap in at the slightest noise of protest and protect his master. But then he’d have to hear Frodo _with someone else_ , and maybe he couldn’t take that. The whole thing’s an awful mess that Frodo should just turn down.

Frodo finally says, “There won’t be any need for that.” In his pause, Sam lets out a huge sigh of relief that clogs in his throat a second later, because Frodo twists around and calls, loud and no longer just for him and Merry, “Sam!”

Sam goes still as a stone. He drops his trowel, head swiveling to _stare_ down the hill, where Frodo’s turned back to take a sip of his tea. With a completely blank head, Sam springs to his feet.

He wanders dazedly down the hill, telling himself not to breathe a word, just listen, surely Mr. Frodo can’t be asking him for _that_ , and he wanders out around the bench to look at Frodo and Merry. His cheeks are burning up. His whole face feels traitorously hot; he’s probably beet red. Frodo opens his mouth, and before he can say another word, Sam gushes horribly, “I’d be honoured to be your bed-warmer, Mr. Frodo.” Then he clamps his mouth shut because he hadn’t even thought about it let alone wanted to _accept it_ but all he can do is picture Frodo in his night things and _Sam wants that so badly._

Frodo blinks. He stares for a moment, and then his whole pretty face turns as pink as Sam’s feels. He mumbles thickly, “I wanted to ask if you want any tea.”

Sam opens his mouth but can’t even get an ‘oh’ out. He closes it again. He thinks he might faint. 

Merry snorts. Sam can’t be bothered to look aside at him. Sam continues to stare blankly and foolishly at Frodo, who looks just as embarrassed and lost, until Merry bursts out into laughter. He bends double over the bench, clutching his middle and spilling tea down his leg, but he can’t seem to stop. Sam wishes he’d brought his trowel so he could dig a hole and hide in it forever.

After an absurdly long time of Merry laughing and Frodo meeting his clumsy gaze, Sam managers to say, “I wouldn’t mind tea.” Frodo nods.

He lifts off the bench, slips his hand into Sam’s, and turns towards the house. He tugs Sam up the steps, Sam following after and unable to feel his legs. He’s moving on sheer instinct and the force of Frodo’s hand. Merry’s laughter follows right to the door. 

When they’re inside, Sam says, “I’m so sorry,” but he can’t seem to do anything else. He’s not even sure his apology was coherent. Frodo leans forward to peck Sam’s cheek. When he pulls back again, Sam’s number than ever.

Frodo _kissed him_. On the cheek, but it still counts. He could float right out the window. Frodo strokes a warm thumb over the back of his hand, stands so close to him and asks, voice soft as a whisper, “Will you come back tonight?”

Sam doesn’t understand, but he nods, dizzy. Frodo smiles one of his dazzling looks that could put any prize-winning garden to shame. 

He says, “I’ll go fetch tea,” and slips out of Sam’s hand, while Sam melts into shame and joy.


End file.
